


Just A Moment

by Lookingkindofdumb



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, The one where Edmund finds trouble in a routine border patrol, an outsider's look in on Edmund, especially not when Edmund is on the warpath, plotting against the Pevensie's isn't a smart idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6354334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookingkindofdumb/pseuds/Lookingkindofdumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine border patrol has Edmund uncovering plots against Narnia and being thrown into a dungeon. All in all, it isn't his worst Christmas in Narnia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I found in my files written a while ago.

The late Mr Butterly’s widow, Mrs Butterly, adjusted her skirts with annoyance, beckoning to a passing serving boy to pick up the spilled crockery.

Luckily none of it was broken, just tipped over. Unluckily it was the very serving tray that had held Lord Appleby’s supper.

That dratted child. If he wasn’t the lord’s son and heir she would have taken the switch to him years ago.

She sighed, picking up the last dish and wiped stubbornly with a cloth at the spilled soup. She would have to tell the maids to mop this section of floor. Mop the entire floor on second thoughts; look at the dust underneath the chest of drawers!

It was remarkable what a different vantage point could reveal. Well, the maids wouldn’t be skimping on the cleaning again. She tutted under her breath.

Honestly, couldn’t the servants be trusted to do anything these days? Why, when she was a child none of the servants would have dared to sweep dust under the furniture!

(Of course, went the ignored thought, the servants had also looked up to and respected the Lord they served under in her mother’s time. The present lords father had been a man worth serving.)

She got to her feet slowly, she wasn’t as young as she had once been, and glanced at the clean(er) hallway.

The serving boy who had helped her tidy away was clearing up the remains of the sliced bread that had tumbled in every which way direction. 

On second glance he was one of the kitchen boys, set to scouring the pans, heating and carrying buckets of water and (when the cook was on the war path) occasionally set to chopping firewood.

A new one too, she deduced, eyes narrowed on the slight boy. A young lad, couldn’t be more than eleven, not necessarily small but slender. Dark hair, that was far too messy in her opinion, shrouding even darker eyes.

He picked up the tray of, now useless, crockery and stood patiently awaiting further orders.

He barely looked like he had the strength to heft the tray, let alone the buckets of water Mrs Butterly knew were heaved to and fro. 

“Take the tray to the kitchen and order up another plate of food for the lord.” She ordered brusquely.

It took her but a few seconds after the boy had left before a thought brought a sour curl to her mouth. Oh, so much to do and so little time to do it in! Why hadn’t she remembered in time to add it to the scullery boys orders?

With a sigh she turned and followed the path the serving lad had trodden, making her own way to the kitchen. She entered the bustling hive of activity just as the boy finished relating his message.

She didn’t expect the strong curses that left the cooks mouth. Really! Such filth!

The boy set down the tray and approached the still cursing chef (and at this point Mrs Butterly almost found herself in appreciation for the imaginative way the cook – Mr Trent – could twist invectives) standing close with a concerned expression.

“What is wrong? Surely there’s enough food to gather up another plate of supper?” The lad asked.

Trent chuckled, a little bitterly, wiping his face with one broad hand.

“Ay. We have enough food. It’ll simply take me too long to cook a fresh meal. The lord’ll have me out for this. Just after a new bairn born too.” Trent muttered the last, tugging anxiously at his apron.

“Why will he replace you? It wasn’t your fault.” The boy asked reasonably. Mrs Butterly too wished to hear the answer so (ignoring the many duties she needed to have completed yesterday) she simply stayed silent and watched.

“I’m on my last chance.” Trent’s lips downturned even as he set about with a fresh set of pots and pans. “There was all that hullaballoo last Yuletide and what with the fire, and the dinner was late. His lordship wasn’t best pleased. Said I’d used up any forgiveness he had left and would turf me out if anything of the sort happened again.” Trent sighed. “Ah, well, the wages should carry till I find another job.”

Mrs Butterly frowned in sympathy. It was a tough lot and the Yuletide catastrophe was hardly Trent’s fault. And today’s supper mishap was solely down to the young master and his practical jokes.

(Mrs Butterly was not a learned woman by any standards, she was pretty average in the intellect department; however, she generally understood the word ‘joke’ to mean something amusing. Humorous. The young lords pranks were anything but. Just created more work and hassle for everyone else.)

Unfortunately, where ever the blame may lie, Lord Applebee was not a man known for his tolerance.

The young lad frowned, eyes roaming over the kitchen, peering through the steam in some parts.

“What about that?” The boy nodded towards a merrily bubbling vat of soup.

Trent shrugged.

“It’s the everything soup for the rest of us. Used up all the remains of the vegetables that weren’t eaten from the Lords table.

“Can’t Lord Applebee be served that?”

Trent looked aghast.

“Of course not!” Ah, and this was one of the reasons she rather liked Trent; he too felt pride in his work, in serving well. 

“Why not?” The boy asked sounding ever so reasonable.

“Because-because its from the scrap vegetables! He was supposed to have parsnip soup this evening.”

“Were the vegetables mouldy?”

Trent puffed up with pride.

“Of course not! What kind of a cook do you think I am?”

The boys lips twitched upwards ever so slightly.

“You used vegetables that were for Lord Applebee anyway, vegetables he would have eaten. What exactly is wrong with that?” He didn’t give Trent the time to respond. “Does it taste alright?”

Once again Trent’s face flushed. “Does it taste ‘alright’? No food prepared in this kitchen ever tastes ‘alright’! Good at the very least! Marvellous if you appreciate good food! Never just ‘alright’.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

The young lad had Trent stumped there.

“Even if I serve him the soup I still can’t whip up a main course in-” Trent glanced at the clock “-less than ten minutes.”

“The steak fillets for tomorrows supper are fresh and quick to cook. And I know you keep some of that sauce on hand.” Mrs Butterly cut in. Trent blinked.

“And anyway, you have a little longer than ten minutes, if you stagger out the courses. Bring him his soup now, the main when he’s done with the soup and then the dessert. He’s not entertaining anyone so he won’t care so much about impressing people with the spread.” The boy (she would really need to find out his name) suggested.

Trent glanced at the clock then grinned.

“Well,” Trent shrugged, “what have I got to lose?”

And with that he set to in a flurry that somehow managed to be utterly productive.

The boy carefully ladled some soup into a bowl, sliced up some bread and then placed it on a tray before heading out of the kitchen.

Completely forgetting that she had originally come down to restrict the young lords sweet tooth in punishment for his prank, Mrs Butterly grabbed a pitcher of wine and followed the lad out.

Lord Applebee was far more tolerable after a few goblets of wine.

Ahem. Lord Applebee was far more _tolerant_ after _he_ had downed some wine.

They entered the study, where Lord Applebee preferred to eat as he studied documents pertaining to his land and other missives she wasn’t privy to.

Quietly, in a practised movement, the boy placed down the tray, careful not to upset any of the papers or quills. 

Mrs Butterly poured a goblet of wine and left the rest of the jug within reach of his thick hands. 

Lord Applebee frowned when he noted the tray.

“And where is the rest? I can’t be expected to subsist on soup alone.” He asked abruptly, crumbling some bread into the bowl of piping hot soup.

Mrs Butterly tried to block the tempting scent of the delicious soup from her nose. She had been on her feet all day without pause and only had time to wolf down some breakfast. It Would not do to have her stomach rumble.

“The cook wanted to make sure you got a piping hot meal after your ride and so made sure to keep the food hot until the very last second to bring it to you so you get the best satisfaction from it.” The boy lied smoothly.

Mrs Butterly blinked.

Well, she supposed all little boys learnt to lie when they tried to pilfer sweet treats from under their mothers noses. 

Still, Trent would certainly be grateful for the flawless spin on the situation.

Although it did make her wonder...if the boy could lie so easily...well, it wasn’t her business.

“Quite right! Now that it is brought to my attention a piping hot meal seems to be exactly what I want after my strenuous activity.”

Mrs Butterly bit her lip firmly to prevent herself from voicing the sharp retort that sprang unwittingly to mind. 

A single hour of gentle horse ride was certainly _not_ strenuous activity.

Especially not considering the fact she knew the main stable hand had dislocated a shoulder yesterday (an unlucky recipient of a kick from one of Lord Applebee’s ‘spirited’ horses), gone to work early this morning when worry over a prize horses health dragged him from bed before the dawn broke, slugged through his usual day (shoulder still swollen and bandaged up) and after the uproar earlier in the stables would no doubt have to stay until the depths of night before finally going to sleep then waking up for a repeat.

Well, it just seemed churlish to complain of a gentle horse ride (done on Lord Applebee’s whim, no less) taken in the leisurely hours of the afternoon, taking advantage of the crisp sunlight. 

She neatly squashed such thoughts, leaving the room after topping up the rapidly draining goblet of rich red wine.

Now, she had an unruly child to discipline.

 

#

 

It was a few days before Mrs Butterly managed to get the boy’s name. To be honest he completely flew out of her mind until she heard a couple of the maids gossiping about the dark haired lad.

Pete, apparently, was his name.

After a quick talk with Trent, where of course the boy came up in conversation, she learnt that he was a good worker when he knew what to do but he kept funny hours. Trent had heard one of the other serving boys talk about Pete’s coming and going.

Probably night terrors. Or he was missing home. It was likely to be the lad’s first trip away from his family considering his age.

She also found out (quite by accident) that many of the serving staff had a bit of a soft spot for him.

Which could actually be from pity because Lord Applebee decidedly didn’t. 

Something about Pete seemed to unsettle Lord Applebee but when questioned the boy had simply shrugged sheepishly and muttered something about spilling some wine on some of the important documents in Applebee’s study.

She didn’t give much thought to the young lad, not out of indifference but simply because she was so busy.

It was coming up to Yuletide once again and Lord Applebee was expecting Very Important guests.

Humpf. Just more trouble for her really.

So it was quite a surprise to hear down the grapevine (three hours after said fact, which really proved how little spare time she had considering gossip spread through Applebee’s household with the same swiftness that freshly made sweet pastries disappeared from the cooling shelf) that Lord Applebee had apprehended the lad and thrown him into the dungeons.

(Awful places dungeons, such a chore to clean. Did Lords and Kings not understand that cleaning such areas was difficult? Each individual link of chain for the manacles? Each uneven stone that may add ‘theatrical effect’ but was simply not practical? And the drip. Don’t get her started on the drip!)

Mrs Butterly’s complaints about the impracticality of dungeons went unvoiced. As did a lot of her _opinions_.

Lord Applebee was keeping quiet on why exactly the lad had been thrown in a cell. (Quite brutally from all accounts.)

So, naturally, the rumours that abounded were perhaps a little closer to the truth than Lord Applebee was comfortable with had he overheard them like the servants overheard every little conversation the Lord partook of under his roof.

From a particularly unimaginative scullery maid Mrs Butterly heard that Pete had been found in Lady Applebee’s chambers. (Rather absurd, if only for the reasons the maid was insinuating. Lady Applebee had been attending a tea party at the time of events. Plus she rather thought Pete might have higher aspirations than _Lady Applebee_.)

From one of the stable lads she heard that Pete had been caught trying to season Lord Applebee’s lunch with belladonna. (Dismissed. Simply because Belladonna was not a particularly good type of seasoning and she rather thought Pete had a bit more sense than that. Like cyanide in the almond cookies Lord Applebee had a fondness for. Not that she’d ever entertained such thoughts, of course. Not in earnest anyway.)

The closest to the truth she felt came from Trent. 

Looking back on it, how he came so close to the truth when he was holed up in the kitchens a whole three floors away from the events unfolding was rather astounding.

(Or, perhaps, a snide voice in her mind whispered, perhaps she and Trent were one of the few in Applebee’s household who had a lick of common sense. Then again...they worked for Lord Applebee.)

“It’s cold outside. The winds got some nip to her.” Trent mumbled into his hot mug.

Mrs Butterly sniffed (she was coming down with a rather nasty cold) and took a sip from her rapidly cooling ginger tea.

“I bet the dungeons don’t keep out the chill.” Trent said even more morosely.

“No. They don’t.” She murmured, remembering the long hours she had spent scrubbing each crevice clean when she was a fresh faced maid first hired.

“And the young lad didn’t have much meat on his bones to keep himself warm.” Trent continued miserably.

Mrs Butterly sighed.

“Well, I’d best get back to work. No rest for the wicked.” She got to her feet, rinsed out her mug and got back to work after dodging an uninspired bucket of ice water hovering over a partially open door.

(On second thoughts, hearing the shrieks and the tale later, perhaps not so uninspired after all. She had assumed the little master had put ice water in the bucket. She was assured it wasn’t so. By the maid who was unfortunate enough to end up covered in slugs...She gave the young master the duty of cleaning up the slime trails as punishment.)

Still, even after her and Trent’s words, she couldn’t quite see why later, when dusk had fallen and twilight was approaching, she found herself carrying a hot cup of milk and some biscuits down to the dungeons.

She doubted Lord Applebee would bother feeding a prisoner properly, if at all, and Trent was right. The lad was just skin and bones.

She crept down, hiding the food and drink in a small basket so she could either hide her purpose coming down here or say they were a snack for herself. No, of course she wasn’t going to feed the prisoner, what did you take her for? Someone who cared?

Hmpf.

She’d grown soft in her old age.

(She had found a single grey hair in her head just the other day and after spending a few hours trying in vain so convince herself it was brought on through stress she had conceded defeat. She was going to age gracefully. Ignore every grey hair; pretend every wrinkle was simple laugh lines proving she had a gay disposition and if her bones creaked than it was just the winters chill.)

She snuck past the single guard, Williamson.

(Actually she brought him some of the cinder toffee Williamson adored with a passion and that Trent kept hidden in the kitchen from thieving sweet stealers. Williamson graciously agreed to keep out of the way for twenty minutes in exchange for the jar. She kept a pocketful for bribery, the young master was surprisingly susceptible to...rewards for good behaviour. Would she be a fly on the wall when Trent looked in the pantry to find the jar missing.)

She walked quietly over to the cells.

She stopped immediately when she heard the sound of voices ahead.

Cautiously she crept closer to the noise. Perhaps Lord Applebee was talking to the prisoner? She debated leaving right away but eventually pushed that (strong) desire away. She’d gotten this far hadn’t she?

(Plus Trent would put two and two together eventually and she could just imagine the morose disappointment that would follow if she failed in her self appointed task. He would mope for days, and where would she be without her weekly supply of honey cakes?)

“-just a couple of cracks of a walnut longer.” A voice, rather common place if Mrs Butterly had to describe it, said.

Evidently she had arrived mid conversation.

She didn’t relax even though she knew that it wasn’t Lord Applebee talking. Or Pete.

“Thank you.” Pete’s voice murmured in response.

“May I ask why you are in chains?” The unknown voice enquired with all the equanimity as though they were all enjoying afternoon tea.

“You may.” There was cheeky amusement in Pete’s voice. Far too much for a boy tossed in a cell.

“Why, then, are you in a cell?” The unknown voice sighed, as though used to word play.

“Lord Applebee caught me rifling through his tax files.” The boy admitted with far too much nonchalance. He sounded like he’d been caught cleaning the dishes after he had been told to do so!

“He _caught_ you?”

“Well, yes.” There was the shame. But thoroughly misplaced in Mrs Butterly’s opinion. Honestly, what were the youth coming to these days? 

“But how was I to know he would return from a ride early? He’s usually punctual to a fault and it wasn’t my fault his horse threw a shoe.”

Mrs Butterly raised an eyebrow. Not go routing through Lord Applebee’s private documents was an idea to not get caught in such trouble.

Unease shifted in her belly, Lord Applebee would not look kindly on anyone snooping in his study. Pete was in for a tough time of it.

“Only you would find punctuality to be a fault.” The unknown voice grumbled.

Mrs Butterly crept just a little closer. Evidently she wasn’t quite quiet enough.

“Sh! Someone’s coming!” The unknown voice whispered, loud in the silent cells.

Well, nothing for it now. Plus it certainly didn’t sound like the unknown voice would report to Lord Applebee.

Mrs Butterly stepped from behind the corner blinking when she just saw Pete sitting in his cell, utterly relaxed and no one else in sight.

Had she been hallucinating? 

She spied a disturbance in the dust by the cell door. Evidently not.

(And dust! In the dungeons! She didn’t care if it did add to the gloomy disposition of the cells, the gloom could go hang itself, there wasn’t to be dust creeping in under her watch.)

“Mrs Butterly.” Pete said, surprise widening his eyes.

Mrs Butterly suddenly remembered her purpose and pulled out the (still warm) mug of milk, handing it through the bars to the bemused boy who in those chains could easily hold the cup and lift it to his lips.

(Honestly, if she was designing a dungeon the first thing would be to find something better than those chains, you wouldn’t want a prisoner to be too mobile after all. It was such a shame the Lords and Kings didn’t have her insight or wouldn’t listen to her input.)

The lad was shivering in the cool air, made colder from the forbidding stone.

“Thank you.” He murmured once the cup was drained. She took back the cup without a word and handed over the biscuits.

“Who is this then?” A voice out of nowhere asked and suddenly, sitting atop Pete’s shoulder was a mouse. With a sword.

Well. It was a good job the young masters pranks had practically made any ability to show shock she had once had disappear. 

“I assume you’re his accomplice to leaving the cells?” Mrs Butterly asked archly as Pete neatly disposed of the biscuits.

“That I am. Richilian at your service madam.” The mouse answered with a bow and a flourish.

And with that the mouse got to work on the chains around Pete’s wrists. Presumably what he had been doing before she interrupted.

“Dare I ask why you have an accomplice?” She asked dryly.

Pete gave a small grin. Small though it might have been it was true, something she felt was rare from the usually solemn lad.

“Accomplices. Plural. Someone’s got to wait with the horses.” The boy responded cheekily.

Mrs Butterly stepped to the side as the cell door swung open and the newly freed boy stretched out his arms and stepped out.

“Well, you had better get going. The guard promised me twenty minutes and we’ve had at least ten of those promised.” 

Pete blinked at her before slowly smiling. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me. I’m aiding and abetting!” She whispered feeling a flutter of both fear and excitement run through her veins.

“Well, an alibi can be arranged. I’m sure young master Applebee will be happy to claim you fell victim to one of his pranks during my escape in exchange for the cinder toffee in your pocket and a chance to ride his father’s horse.” There was that cheekiness again.

Mrs Butterly gave him a glance drier than the desert.

“I have no wish to be doused in slugs.”

“Well of course not. The little lord isn’t nearly so unoriginal to use the same prank twice.”

“Hmpf.”

She almost couldn’t believe it when they made it past the gates and to the shadow of the outer garrison post.

Slipping away right under the guards nose. She had to bite back the bizarre urge to laugh.

She almost jumped when the mouse, Richilian, hooted like an owl. A deer coughed.

She did jump when a two darkened figures detached from the shadows and stepped over to them.

“Peter?!” Pete exclaimed, loud enough to be inadvisable. Evidently surprised.

Mrs Butterly examined the cheetah and the young man who had appeared. The cheetah had spots. That was about the moment when Mrs Butterly realised she probably wasn’t very good at distinguishing physical characteristics of an animal she had only ever seen once before.

The young man was tall and broad shouldered with a noble bearing and blond hair.

Something nagged at Mrs Butterly, some odd type of familiarity. She was sure she had never seen the young man before.

“Ed.” The man responded, scolding the volume of the exclamation. But the hand he reached out to trace the bruises on Pete’s face was gentle. 

(And really, why lie about the name?)

“You were supposed to stay in Cair Paravel-with our sisters!”

“Well, you were supposed to stay out of trouble. So I guess we’re even.” The blond man responded amiably. And there was the same cheekiness Pete, or Ed, had shown. Come to think of it, despite the size difference Ed and Peter’s hands were similar.

Several puzzle pieces clicked together in Mrs Butterly’s mind in that moment and she could scarcely believe the conclusion she had come to.

Everyone had heard of Cair Paravel, especially in recent times. Even servants of a Lord outside of Narnia.

“I got the documents first.” Ed, possibly King Edmund the Just, muttered just a tad sullenly.

“You were thrown into a cell. Again, I might add. According to Susan’s list that qualifies as getting into trouble.” Peter, quite probably King Peter the Magnificent, countered.

“You should have burnt that list when you got the chance.” Edmund complained.

“I disagree. That list is indispensible with keeping you in line.”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed.

“Who was it who was instrumental in getting the list written in the first place?” Edmund asked arching an eyebrow.

“Just because you haven’t been caught nearly so often doesn’t mean I don’t know you’ve broken every single rule on that list just to be contrary.” Peter rolled his eyes.

“That doesn’t-” Edmund cut himself off when an owl hooted.

“That’s the signal.” Peter murmured. “Right, come on. I know you’re favouring your ribs so answer me truthfully. Can you cope at full gallop?”

Edmund grimaced then seemed to think about it. The line of his mouth soured.

“No.” He answered reluctantly. 

“Right. Well, that’s travel arrangements sorted. You’ll ride with me. Phillip will just join us for the exercise.”

“Mrs Butterly, thank you for your assistance.” Edmund said, giving a nod of his head. She raised an eyebrow.

“Please don’t thank me.” She replied with a grimace. “I’m currently nowhere in your vicinity falling prey to a bucket of something slimy.”

Edmund snorted.

She watched them leave for a few moments, listening to their conversation fade.

“You know I hate riding as a passenger. I feel like a sack of potatoes that you cling to...” 

Honestly, they were treating this more like a picnic than a prison break.

Mrs Butterly sighed and squared her shoulders. Time to face the music. Or, more likely, the rapscallion of a child whose tones were far from dulcet.

 

#

 

Before:

 

“Those horrid lords are visiting again.” Susan informed them with down turned lips.

“You will have to be more specific.” Edmund murmured absently as he pondered his next move on the chess board.

“Edmund.” Susan’s voice was reproving at his insult to most of the lords they encountered but her lips twitched upwards at the corners so Edmund counted it as a win.

“Oh. And I was so looking forward to a relaxing week.” Lucy sighed.

Edmund moved his knight, capturing a pawn.

Peter groaned. “You’re sure?” He asked.

Susan nodded. “Quite.”

“Which lords are we talking about?” Edmund asked his curiosity piqued.

“The beastly ones.” Lucy muttered, rather uncharacteristically seeing as she usually thought the best of everyone. Edmund felt his stomach sink a little. Oh dear.

“Lord Hugo, Lord Racket and Lord Ridgeley.” Susan said with distaste.

“Oh.” Even to his own ears Edmund’s voice sounded small. The feeling in his stomach soured. He gently flicked one of his chess pieces over. “Well, it’s a lovely day; I’ll just go for a ride.” He left the room, the sweet cloying taste of Turkish Delight at the back of his throat.

 

#

Lucy followed her brothers retreating back with her eyes before glancing down to the chess board where she and Edmund had been enjoying a game.

On Edmund’s side of the board the single lone figure of the black king lay down across the chequered squares.

A new torrent of rain rattled the wide windows of the cosy room the four siblings liked to unwind in when they had the chance.

“He’ll catch a chill.” Susan said softly.

“Phillip will look after him.” Peter said dismissively. He couldn’t hide the concern in his eyes nearly so easily as he could the worry in his voice.

Lucy sighed and packed away the chess pieces. She knew Edmund would have won, eventually, but it was still fun to pitch against him. And it was good to keep him challenged. 

“It’s Christmas in little over a month. Hopefully we’ll be free of their presence before then.” 

“I just hope they are not going to be as beastly as last year.” Lucy glared at the rain dotted window.

Lords Hugo, Racket and Ridgeley were an unpleasant bunch at the best of times. They were some of the many people who had come forward claiming land their ancestors had held before the White Witch came and they fled Narnia.

Which was all well and good, Narnia welcomed people of all stature and shape, however it did cause some problems.

Like a numerous Beaver clan who claimed the dams their ancestors had once dwelled in yet where the dam had once been was a bridge that was useful for the rest of the Narnia inhabitants. And that wasn’t even taking into account the ever shifting territory boundaries.

Susan had had her hands full keeping the peace between squabbling families all fighting for the same patch of land. Peter had been busy trekking out and mapping the actual way the land lay now. Edmund had gone over all the legalities, pouring through thick tomes and trying to scavenge up any scrap that listed the actual amount of land each family had held before the White Witch’s reign. And Lucy had had the unpleasant business of telling each family what land they had been allocated.

Needless to say there had been just as much displeasure as delight at the final territories that were hashed out.

Hugo, Racket and Ridgeley hadn’t been particularly impressed and they seemed to lay the blame at Edmund’s feet simply because he had disrupted one of their disputes with a scathing retort that was well earned but perhaps not best timed diplomatically speaking.

The three unpleasant men had been noticeably dismissive of Edmund before this but after appeared to simply ignore Edmund’s presence entirely.

Until, of course, Christmas came around.

This was the first year of their reign and thus just a year since the Witch had been defeated.

Thus the date didn’t hold many good memories for Edmund. It didn’t help that winter appeared to be rather snowy and cold in Narnia.

Lucy didn’t know how, didn’t know where the three lords had gotten their information, but they had given each of the sovereigns a gift for Christmas.

They had given Edmund Turkish Delight.

Since then, well, suffice to say the three lords weren’t exactly welcome in Cair Paravel. Not that this was said out loud, they were Kings and Queens. However, Peter, Susan and Lucy made their displeasure clear.

Unfortunately the message appeared not to have sunk in if they were returning.

Lucy sighed once again.

“Perhaps a trip to the borders is in order? Edmund can be the most diplomatic of us all so he should go.” Lucy suggested a sudden idea striking her.

“And of course a thorough job must be done, our borders must be secure.” Peter added with a grin.

“Such a shame that the timing coincides with Lord Hugo, Racket and Ridgeley’s visit.” Susan sighed, a glimmer of mischievousness in her eyes.

 

#

 

It would have been such a good plan too, Lucy thought after, had Edmund not had an uncanny knack for getting into trouble.

During his tour of the borders Edmund had heard rumours of a plot against the four of them so, naturally, had traced them to its source.

At least this time Edmund remembered to keep them informed. Poor Rumple was kept very busy, flying to and fro from Cair Paravel to Edmund bearing coded messages. The little robin red breast however, seemed very chuffed at his important mission.

Lords Hugo, Racket and Ridgeley had been just as odious as ever but at least Edmund wasn’t there to hear their snide insults and ‘subtle’ digs.

Also thankfully Lucy, Peter and Susan had managed to plough through the ‘new evidence’ the three lords had brought with them about Lord Racket’s territory and despite the fact none of them were quite as well versed in Narnian law as Edmund had done a fair enough job of denying the request.

So, Lucy had been anticipating Edmund’s return from the second the three lords left (a mere two weeks before Christmas) when Rumple appeared with a new message from Edmund.

Apparently he was following up a new lead at Lord Applebee’s manor. Applebee’s lands were outside of Narnia, enough so that it would take a dedicated person at least a week of travel to get there from Cair Paravel.

(Shorter if they took a ship but only by a day or so.)

“I’m going to Applebee’s manor.” Lucy stated, dressed in a riding habit and with a half packed knapsack by her feet. (She had been in the midst of packing before it occurred to her to speak to her older brother and sister.)

“Absolutely not.” Susan said, not quite sharply. Lucy squared her shoulders.

“And why not?” She asked crossing her arms.

“Because I’m going.” Peter said firmly.

Lucy opened her mouth to complain about the unfairness but Peter pre-emptively cut her off.

“Look, this close to Christmas you and Su are needed here. Susan’s the only one able to organise these balls and soirees that are so ‘important’.” Lucy could almost hear the italics surrounding the word. “And Lu, you’re the best at calming down everyone when Susan’s busy not to mention when people come to Cair Paravel for Christmas they come to see the two Queens more than anyone else.”

Lucy subsided grudgingly. She couldn’t exactly argue with the points Peter had made. It was true that celebrations and parties weren’t really Peter or Edmund’s strong points.

Neither was fond of them and neither yet had enough political savvy or diplomacy to hide this fact.

“Fine.” Her tone softened. “Do be careful.”

“And remember the list; there is still some chainmail ready to be cleaned.” Susan warned with a mischievous grin.

Peter glowered.

Cleaning chainmail of dried blood was an odious task simple because of the many links of each individual small piece of metal. And because you didn’t want the metal to rust.

Lucy watched Peter speed away on a dark horse better for camouflage followed by the chief guard, a cheetah, Richilian the mouse, Sullivan the badger and Phillip who refused to be left behind again.

“They won’t be back in time for Christmas.” Lucy sighed to herself.

“Well, we can have our own celebrations once they are back safely.” Susan murmured. Lucy jumped; she hadn’t noticed her sister’s approach.

Susan, out of the four of them, spent the most time at Cair Paravel. She didn’t particularly care much for travelling and it was mainly Peter who went to actual battles to fight off the remnants of the White Witches allies. 

Sometimes Lucy rather thought that Susan had the hardest job of them all. She didn’t fight. On the few times when Lucy, Peter and Edmund were away battling Susan was left by herself to rule.

It was Susan’s preferred state to actual battles but sometimes Lucy wondered if the waiting ate at her just as much as it did Lucy.

Of course it did. Susan worried about them the most. She was simply much better at hiding it all behind a perfect Queenly mask.

“Come on. Mrs Beaver wanted to talk to you about the catering.” Lucy eventually said, pulling them away from the balcony watching the long cold trail of their brother’s path.

 

#

 

It was two weeks and three days later before Peter and Edmund returned.

Unfortunately not in the same good condition as they had left.

Well, Edmund wasn’t anyway.

Lucy and Susan had both crushed him in a hug before they realised his chest was bound to help heal his ribs and keep them from jostling too much. 

Oops.

He seemed in quite good spirits though; apparently getting caught snooping, beaten up and then thrown in the dungeons was the perfect Christmas for Edmund.

Oh, and discovering and foiling an elaborate plot against Narnia which so happened to implicate Lord’s Hugo, Racket and Ridgeley.

“Seeing as you’re in such good spirits,” Susan said sweetly, “you can sit next to Lady Eleanor during the feast and discuss the newest changes in fashion and favourable brocade to hang in the entrance hall.” Susan smiled gently.

Edmund stared at her, aghast. He looked to Lucy and Peter for support but like rats fleeing a sinking ship they had made themselves scarce.

“But-”

“Oh, don’t worry, you can rest for now. The feast isn’t until this evening. Unless you would like to clean some of the chainmail waiting-” 

Edmund visibly resigned himself to his fate.

“I don’t think the phrase ‘killing them with kindness’ is supposed to be taken so literally.” He griped, accepting his punishment with reluctance.

Susan simply smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Susan is quietly devious in my headcanon.


End file.
